


Slip

by libbertyjibbit



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Coercion, Dubious Consent, Extra Treat, Finger Sucking, Isolation, M/M, Manipulation, Non-Consensual Groping, Non-Linear Narrative, Orgasm Denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:33:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23729839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/libbertyjibbit/pseuds/libbertyjibbit
Summary: Martin's mother dies on a Tuesday.  After the funeral, Peter pays him a visit.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Peter Lukas
Comments: 27
Kudos: 81
Collections: Smut 4 Smut 2020





	Slip

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anysin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anysin/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Ускользая](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25085089) by [evijuls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/evijuls/pseuds/evijuls)



> I hope you enjoy this, anysin. :)

Martin’s mother dies on a Tuesday.

It’s not a surprise, really. The last few years have been difficult; she’d often been more out of the world than in, and in recent months had seemed to lose the will to live entirely, merely lying in bed and staring out the window. She’d started refusing food about a week before she’d finally passed, and although he’d been encouraged to visit her Martin hadn’t gone. He knew that no matter what state she was in she wouldn’t want to see him. There would be no last heartfelt goodbye; no tearful reconciliation that would mend past hurts. She would go to her grave hating him as deeply as ever; perhaps worse, if her mind was as absent as he was told. No way to distinguish his visage from that of the one she really hated; no way for her to remember that it was the son she was directing her wrath towards and not the father. So he had stayed away.

He is the only one at the funeral. His mother had no siblings, and if she ever had any friends he never knew them. There is no one left to mourn her but him, and he supposes that he’s failed her even at that. He loved her and he will miss her in spite of the fact that she couldn’t love him, but he isn’t mourning. He doesn’t feel grieved at her loss. There’s been so much loss of late – too much – and he feels none of it. The guilt has swallowed it whole

He goes home after, curls up as tight as he can on his old, sagging mattress and stares at the wall, eyes dry, teeth clenched against the apologies that want to spill out – no one to hear them now, no one to care, and now he can’t even pretend that there’s a future in which they would. There is nothing and no one for him, not anymore.

This is his fault.

He knows it like he knows that his mother’s last thought as she died was of his father, and how much she hates him for leaving, for deserting her with a mewling, clinging little boy that she found herself unable to love as he grew older and his face took on a familiar cast. This is his fault, and he doesn’t deserve the relief of tears. What he deserves is to carry this guilt with him until the day he finally dies, which he has every reason to believe will be sooner than later.

He curls up tighter, wraps his arms around himself, and focuses on breathing.

~***~

“You know, you’d make a fine assistant,” Peter says.

Martin startles, nearly knocking the papers off of the desk. “I – what are you doing here?” he asks dumbly.

Peter smiles, the corners of his too blue eyes crinkling at the edges. It’s a friendly smile, and Martin finds that he wants to return it in spite of himself. There’s been precious little to smile about. Tim and Daisy are gone, Basira’s distant, and Melanie…he’s afraid of her, he realizes. She’s taken to pacing the halls, face tight and hands clenched, restrained violence practically pouring off of her. Martin doesn’t even know if she goes home anymore. He thinks it’s mostly a reaction to being so constantly watched – he feels it too, and it makes leaving the Institute uncomfortable, although he knows he has to – but he doesn’t really trust that she won’t turn on them. Basira doesn’t seem to have the same worry, but then she and Melanie were always much closer.

“I work here, of course,” Peter says, a hint of amusement in his voice. Martin feels his face heat but doesn’t look away. Juts his chin a little instead.

“And yet no one ever sees you around,” he says, and Peter laughs.

“No, I suppose they don’t. But I haven’t been completely absent.”

Martin knows. The emails come regularly every week, directives sent from wherever Peter has holed himself, if he’s even in the building at all. No one aside from Martin has seen him though – Basira hadn’t been angry when she’d told him that he hadn’t been there to greet her when Martin had sent her to him, but Melanie had been, even though she’d left long before Basira – and people are talking.

“There’s just been so much to get through. Which brings me to my main point. I could really use someone to help out. Someone clever.” He gestures at the papers scattered around Martin’s desk. “You’re wasting your time with this.”

“I – someone needs to record the statements,” Martin says, fingers curling around the pages.

“I wasn’t aware that it had to be you.” Peter shakes his head. “You aren’t the Archivist; none of this will be any use to you.”

“But I could be of use to you, right?” Martin retorts, and Peter laughs again, delighted.

“Exactly. See? Clever. And it wouldn’t all be for my benefit, you know.” He leans into Martin’s space, bracing one of his hands on the desk. Martin shifts uncomfortably, wanting to pull away but not wanting Peter to know that he’s unnerved him. “This place is being watched. Surely you’ve seen that. Felt the eyes on your back when you go home at night. They won’t watch forever. I could help with that.”

“Are-are you _threatening_ me?” Martin asks, voice going high and offended.

Peter smiles. “Not a threat, no. An offer of protection, for you and your coworkers. But one that comes with a price.”

“If they get in here, they’ll come for you too,” Martin says.

“I imagine they will. But I can go places that they can’t follow. Can you say the same for yourself? Or the lovely Ms. Hussain and Ms. King?” Peter reaches out, squeezes Martin’s shoulder and runs his fingers lightly down his arm. Martin shivers. “Think about it.”

He’s gone before Martin can reply. Martin swallows hard and goes back to his statement, pretending that he can’t still feel the path Peter’s fingers took down his arm, chilling him.

~****~

The door to his flat opens, then closes. Footsteps move across the floor, into the kitchen. The pipes creak as someone turns on the tap; he hears water splashing in a glass. Next door someone laughs, a door slams, and Martin blinks sore eyes and resents the owner of that laugh for being so happy when he can’t be.

Footsteps again. They stop at his bedroom door, but Martin doesn’t turn to look. He knows who it is. There’s only one person it can be, after all. Only one person he has left.

~****~

“Have you spoken to Lukas?” Melanie demands the second Martin enters the room, her eyes hot and furious. Basira stands just behind her, arms loose at her sides, and Martin knows that it’s to stop Melanie if she lunges at him. She wants to; tension is coiled in every line of her body, but he doesn’t think she will.

“No,” Martin says, stepping cautiously into the room. “Did something happen?”

“Oh, something definitely happened,” Melanie snarls. Basira puts a calming hand on her shoulder.

“Devon from research is gone,” she says, voice calm and unruffled, and Melanie lets out a little growl. “He had a complaint about his hours.”

“Oh.” Martin knows-knew Devon. They hadn’t been friends, but they’d been friendly. His daughter turned two just last month.

“Oh? Is that all you have to say? Lukas got rid of him didn’t he? Same way he did Sally.”

“I-yes, probably,” Martin says, dropping heavily into the nearest chair. “But I don’t – I didn’t –“

“No. No. You’re the one he talks to; you’re the one who’s going to fix this.” Melanie shakes off Basira’s restraining hand and stalks towards Martin, her eyes lit with fury. “While you’ve been in here pretending to be Jon and making nice with our new jailer, Basira and I have been keeping us safe. It’s time you pull your weight.” She leans close, close enough that Martin can actually smell the rage on her, like burnt matches. “If you don’t figure out a way to keep him from doing this again, the next time it happens I’m going to make _you_ pay for it.”

“Melanie, enough,” Basira says, a warning, and Melanie snarls again and storms out of the room.

“Thank you,” Martin says, and Basira turns a cool gaze on him.

“I didn’t do it for you. I agree with her. You’re not helping. I don’t know what’s going on with you but I can’t keep her in line and worry about you, too. Get it together.” She sweeps out after Melanie without a second glance.

Martin watches her leave, then puts his head in his hands. He flinches when he feels cold fingers against the back of his neck, tries to pull away, but the fingers tighten, forcing him into stillness.

“They’re right, you know,” Peter says, stroking his neck, and Martin laughs hollowly.

“Yes, well, you would say that,” he says, gritting his teeth as Peter’s fingers move to his shoulders, caressing. He shifts, but the touch follows, and Martin resigns himself to putting up with it. Fingers slide through his hair and map out his back as Peter once again offers his help, his protection, and Martin shakes his head.

“Are you sure you won’t change your mind?” Peter asks. He presses himself up against him and slides his hands around to his chest; mapping that out as well. Martin closes his eyes and shivers against those cold fingers. “Protection isn’t all I can offer. I’m afraid I can’t return your friend, but I can refrain from taking any more. If you say yes.”

“I-“

“Come now, Martin. You want to do something, don’t you? Contribute, as Ms. King said? You could protect them this way. They may not thank you for it, but at least they’ll be safe.” One of his fingers finds a nipple and rubs; it hardens instantly under his touch. Heat pools low in Martin's belly and he swallows hard. He wants to be touched almost as much as he wants to be doing something, anything to help, but he knows that what Peter is offering won’t be that simple.

“I can’t,” Martin says, gasps really, and Peter pulls way. He’s gone by the time that Martin turns around.

~****~

Peter sets the glass of water down on the nightstand with a muted click. “How was the service?” he asks, and Martin rolls his eyes.

“Don’t,” he says, and Peter nods, sitting beside him. His hands find their way to Martin’s body, as always, and this time Martin doesn’t have the strength to even try to pull away. Instead he closes his eyes, the tears finally coming, slipping from closed lids as he finally gives in, gives Peter the answer he wants. “I’ll do it.”

“I know,” Peter’s fingers slide to the buttons on Martin’s shirt and begin to undo them, one by one. “I won’t pretend I’m not pleased to hear you say so. Only one last thing to do. Sit up.”

Martin does, too tired to resist as Peter divests him of his clothes and encourages him to lay back down on the bed. He’s not stupid; he knows that it was always leading to this, all the touching and petting and standing too close, getting Martin used to the chill of his body so that when he finally decided to take what he wanted Martin wouldn’t flinch away. _It’s fine_ , he thinks, as Peter’s cold hand wraps around him and begins to stroke, _it doesn’t matter._ _Nothing does. Not anymore._

Peter’s touch is light, almost not there at all. It's just enough that Martin can’t ignore it. He squirms, feeling his body respond despite himself, trying to increase the friction as his body begins to heat up, his cock to fill with blood. A soft, frustrated noise slips past his lips and Peter smiles down at him, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“That’s it,” he says. He strokes his free hand along Martin’s neck and Marin arches towards it, another sound escapes him. Peter continues to stroke along his body and along his cock as he speaks, the touches staying light, barely there at all. “This is all there is for you. My hands, my voice, my cock. I promise to take care of you and I will, but you have to take care of me. Give me what I want, Martin.” He tightens his hand, finally putting some real pressure around his cock, and Martin’s hands clench into the duvet, his eyes screwing shut as he shoots deliriously towards the edge, finally, yes –

The hand withdraws and Martin moans, unsatisfied. His hand reaches for his cock, but Peter grabs his wrists and pins them down. Leaving him to struggle against him, hips jerking uselessly into the air, desperate. He opens his eyes to gaze pleadingly at Peter, begging him wordlessly to finish it. Peter transfers Martin’s wrists to one hand and pins them above his head. Martin tugs, but he’s strong, stronger than he looks, and he lets himself go limp. “Please,” he says. “I need-“

“Hush,” Peter says, pushing two fingers past Martin’s lips, damp with precome. Martin sucks, tasting himself and under that, salt. Peter pushes his fingers in and out of his mouth, and Martin moans around them, spreads his legs, begs wordlessly for what he knows is coming next. Sucks hard, getting them good and wet, delighting in the way Peter’s lips part as he does.He's not wrecked the way Martin is, not moaning and begging with spread legs and eager mouth and rocking hips, but his eyes are on fire, and when Martin sends a brief glance towards his groin and sees just how hard he is in his trousers he can't stifle the sound he makes, low and wanting. He tugs again at the hand holding his wrists captive, suddenly desperate to touch, to get his hands and mouth on that bulge in Peter's trousers and break him the way he's breaking Martin.

"None of that," Peter says, hooking his thumb under Martin's chin and dragging his head up, forcing him to meet his eyes. "You know why I'm here." He strokes his fingers gently along Martin's tongue. "Today is for taking. And you want me to, don't you?"

Martin nods, stroking his tongue along Peter's fingers. _Yeah, come on_ , he thinks, misery forgotten for the moment. Everything forgotten for the moment but the eagerness to be fucked. To be taken. Peter pushes his fingers farther into Martin's mouth, making him gag slightly and Martin moans again, hips jerking, eyes rolling back. He doesn't want Peter but he does want to be mindless. _Come on, do it._

As if obeying the unspoken demand, Peter pulls his fingers from Martin’s mouth and brings them to his arse, and here there is no light touch, no soft caress. He pushes both fingers in hard, and Martin cries out, jerking against his restraining hands, his body tightening and trying to reject the intrusion even as he spreads his legs wider and pushes back into them. It hurts a bit, but he doesn’t care, he wants the pain, it makes him remember what this is, and what it means. He works himself back against Peter’s fingers as they move, relishing the burn, moaning when Peter angles them just right. His cock is still hard and aching, precome but Peter takes no notice of it, only moves his fingers in and out of Martin’s body in an uneven rhythm, speeding then slowing, pressing against that delicious spot inside him until he thinks he'll shake apart and then withdrawing, almost but never quite enough to bring Martin over the edge. It goes on for what feels like forever, Peter working Martin up only to bring him back down, until Martin’s entire body feels like one exposed nerve. His eyes fill with frustrated tears, and when the first one falls from the corner of his eye, Peter finally withdraws his horrible, wonderful, torturing fingers. 

“Turn over,” he says, loosening his hold on Martin just enough so that he can. Martin does; his cock brushes against the duvet and he starts rutting mindlessly into the bed, feeling half-ashamed of himself for being so desperate but still unable to stop.

A cold hand squirms under him, wraps around the base of his cock and squeezes. It hurts, and Martin sobs. “Please,” he begs, hardly aware of what he’s saying. “Please let me.”

“No.” Peter releases his hands but Martin knows better than to try and dislodge Peter's other hand or touch himself. Instead he curls his fingers over the end of the mattress and holds on, bracing himself. “That’s very good, Martin,” Peter says, and Martin feels his already overheated skin heat even further at the praise. The sound of Peter unzipping his trousers seems very loud.

Peter takes him hard and brutally, driving into him over and over, snapping his hips. He’s large and it hurts, but still Martin cries out with each thrust, working his hips back, fingers digging into the mattress. He feels almost sick with lust, his cock and balls aching with the need to come. Dimly, he can hear his own voice begging, pleading with Peter to please, please, please end it, let him come, but Peter doesn’t answer, doesn’t give him any relief, just keeps fucking into him, hand tight, so tight around his cock. 

He doesn’t know how long it goes on before Peter gets a hand in his hair and uses it to jerk his head back. “You’re mine,” he says, lips against Martin’s ear, beard rasping against his face. “You belong to me, to my god. From this moment on Loneliness is your lover and Isolation your friend. When you touch yourself it will be me you think of and no one else, and when you come it will be my name on your lips. That is the price of my protection. Do you accept?”

“Yes,” Martin says, lost. His wrecked vocal chords can produce little more than a cracked whisper. “Yes, anything, just please let me-“

Peter’s hips snap twice more, driving Martin up the bed with the force of them, and then he groans, the first and only uncontrolled sound he’s made since he entered the room.

A moment later, Martin feels him shudder, feels his cock twitch inside him, and it's so cold Martin can’t help but shiver.

“Please,” Martin begs in his new cracked voice, but he’s only greeted with silence. The hand around his cock is gone, as is the heavy weight of Peter at his back. “No,” Martin moans and turns over, but of course Peter is already gone, faded away to wherever he goes when he no longer wants to be seen.

Martin reaches down and brings himself off with tears drying on his cheeks and Peter's come sliding down his thighs, feeling used and wrung out and so very alone.

When he comes, he thinks of Peter.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading.


End file.
